953 MS DhD LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE A BRANCH OF MAY Mdccccix BRKELE Y LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA L, / 10 t A BRANCH OF MAY REPLACING COPYRIGHT LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE 1887 Jr CONTENTS PAGE BETRAYED 3 THE DESERTED HOUSE . . 4 A SONG 6 HALLOWMAS . ... 7 A SPINNING SONG .... 8 MY TRUE LOVE LIES ASLEEP . 10 ANNE .... .11 A WET JUNE DAY . 13 THE OLD PATH .... 14 A SONG FOR CANDLEMAS . . 15 SUNRISE . 16 KEATS . ... 17 A THOUGHT OF MAY . . 18 COUPLETS . 19 A DECEMBER ROSE . 20 A SONG . 21 MID-MARCH 22 THE SINGER 23 SWEET WEATHER 25 M8(>75G9 CONTENTS PAGE IN JUNE ...... 26 AFTER THE RAIN .... 28 A RHYME OF DEATH S INN . . 29 THE DEATH POTION ... 30 BLACKBERRY BLOSSOMS ... 33 SUNSET 34 THE DEAD SHIP .... 35 A RHYME FOR JUNE ... 37 AUGUST 38 EARLY SEPTEMBER ... 39 A NOVEMBER AFTERNOON . . 40 THE FIRST SNOW .... 41 TO HER SWEET EYES 42 VI A BRANCH OF MAY Another rhymer ? quoth the World. Faith, these folk be mad ! BETRAYED HE is false, O Death, she is fair ! Let me hide my head on thy knee ; Blind mine eyes, dull mine ears, O Death ! She hath broke my heart for me ! Give me a perfect dream ; Find me a rare, dim place ; But let not her voice come nigh, And keep out her face her face ! THE DESERTED HOUSE ""^HE old house stands deserted, gray, With sharpened gables high in air, And deep-set lattices, all gay With massive arch and framework rare ; And o er it is a silence laid, That feeling, one grows sore afraid. The eaves are dark with heavy vines ; The steep roof wears a coat of moss ; The walls are touched with dim designs Of shadows moving slow across ; The balconies are damp with weeds, Lifting as close as streamside reeds. The garden is a loved retreat Of melancholy flowers, of lone And wild-mouthed herbs, in companies sweet, Mid desolate green grasses thrown; And in its gaps the hoar stone wall Lets sprays of tangled ivy fall. The pebbled paths drag, here and there, Old lichened faces, overspun With silver spider-threads they wear A silence sad to look upon : It is so long since happy feet Made them to thrill with pressure sweet. Mid drear but fragrant shrubs there stands A saint of old made mute in stone, With tender eyes and yearning hands, And mouth formed in a sorrow lone; Tis thick with dust, as long ago Twas thick with fairest blooms that grow. Swallows are whirring here and there; And oft a little soft wind blows A hundred odors down the air; The bees hum round the red, last rose ; And ceaselessly the crickets shrill Their tunes, and yet, it seems so still. Or else, from out the distance steals, Half heard, the tramp of horses, or The bleak and harsh stir of slow wheels Bound cityward ; but more and more, As these are hushed, or yet increase, About the old house clings its peace. A SONG THE year s a little older grown; And fair white boughs by green ways blown In these new days are no more known. ( Oh, who can bring the May again ? ) And we are wiser grown, we two. Our story s told ; each word was true ; And you love me, and I love you. (Oh, who can bring the May again?) Was it not sweeter ere we knew ? Yet who can bring the May again ? HALLOWMAS X/ OU know, the year s not always May * Oh, once the lilacs were ablow ! ( In truth, not very long ago), But now, dead leaves drop down the way. But now, chrysanthemums are gay, And some last roses redly glow. You know, the year s not always May Oh, once the lilacs were ablow ! These be the days, this weather gray, We think of those we loved so ; Sweet souls, who heard Death calling low, And followed him from dark to day. You know, the year s not always May. A SPINNING SONG TTOW many lilies be ablow? * Count them and see Seven by the wall, and seven by the door ; Tis time he came to me. Oh, love s bitter ! Was ever a whiter web than this That I spin to-day ? A wedding gown or a winding sheet, Love, which shall it be ? Oh, love s bitter ! The old dames stand in the street, Neath the willow trees ; And they mark how white my lilies blow, And they hear my bees. Oh, love s bitter ! And one dame says, " Five lads of mine Be in the sea ; " Another says, " That lad of mine, He came not back to me." Oh, love s bitter ! The willow trees grow down to the wharves, Green as of old ; 8 ( Green as the day he went from me ; ) The sea is of gold. Oh, love s bitter ! Two ships I see : one in the west Love, is it thine ? One in the east, in a windy mist Oh, love, which is thine ? Oh, love s bitter ! Then speak the dames : " Her ship went down That night at sea." My seven white lilies do ye hear? For this they speak of me ! Oh, love s bitter ! MY TRUE LOVE LIES ASLEEP MY true love lies asleep In some most heavenly place ; She hath a lily in her hand, A smile upon her face. The dear white roses come And climb about her there ; The sweetest winds you ever heard Go singing down the air. The roses climb so high ; The grasses grow so deep ; You cannot see her where she lies, A-smiling in her sleep. 10 ANNE (SUDBURY MEETING-HOUSE, 1653) 1_TER eyes be like the violets, * Ablow in Sudbury lane ; When she doth smile, her face is sweet As blossoms after rain ; With grief I think of my gray hairs, And wish me young again. In comes she through the dark old door Upon this Sabbath day ; And she doth bring the tender wind That sings in bush and tree ; And hints of all the apple boughs That kissed her by the way. Our parson stands up straight and tall, For our dear souls to pray, And of the place where sinners go, Some grewsome things doth say ; Now, she is highest Heaven to me ; So Hell is far away. Most stiff and still the good folk sit To hear the sermon through ; 11 But if our God be such a God, And if these things be true, Why did He make her then so fair, And both her eyes so blue ? A flickering light, the sun creeps in, And finds her sitting there ; And touches soft her lilac gown, And soft her yellow hair ; I look across to that old pew, And have both praise and prayer. Oh, violets in Sudbury lane, Amid the grasses green, This maid who stirs ye with her feet Is far more fair, I ween ! I wonder how my forty years Look by her sweet sixteen ! 12 A WET JUNE DAY SCENTS, sounds as of November fill the air ; Of myriad blossoms down wet pathways strown, Of ragged leaves off steaming branches blown And dropped into dank hollows here and there. Keen little gusts go whirling through the hush, Driving the mist before them up the lane. And lo, the lovely world grows ours again ! The orchard fences, the one elder bush, Prone with its white face in the thick drenched grass, The rows of apple trees, gnarled, dripping, sweet, The highway with its pools agleam like glass ; Then, as still speeds the mist on shining feet, Meadow, and wood, peaked roofs beyond them shows A windy west, the color of a rose. 13 THE OLD PATH , love ! Oh, love ! this way has hints of yoi In every bough that stirs, in every bee, Yellow and glad, droning the thick grass through ; In blooms red on the bush, white on the tree : And when the wind, just now, came soft and fleet, Scattering the blackberry blossoms, and from some Fast darkening space that thrush sang sudden sweet. You were so near, so near, yet did not come ! Say, is it thus with you, oh, friend, this day ? Have you, for me that love you, thought or word? Do I, with bud or bough, pass by your way ; With any breath of brier, or note of bird ? If this I knew, though you be quick or dead, All my sad life would I go comforted. 14 A SONG FOR CANDLEMAS "^HERE S never a rose upon the bush, -* And never a bud on any tree ; In wood and field nor hint nor sign Of one green thing for you or me. Come in, come. in, sweet love of mine, And let the bitter weather be ! Coated with ice the garden wall ; The river reeds are stark and still ; The wind goes plunging to the sea, And last week s flakes the hollows fill. Come in, come in, sweet love to me, And let the year blow as it will ! 15 SUNRISE I V HE east is yellow as a daffodil. Three steeples three stark swarthy arms are thrust Up from the town. The gnarled poplars thrill Down the long street in some keen salty gust Straight from the sea and all the sailing ships Turn white, black, white again, with noises sweet And swift. Back to the night the last star slips. High up the air is motionless, a sheet Of light. The east grows yellower apace, And trembles : then, once more, and suddenly, The salt wind blows, and in that moment s space Flame roofs, and poplar-tops, and steeples three; From out the mist that wraps the river-ways, The little boats, like torches, start ablaze. 16 KEATS T^LUTING and singing, with young locks aflow, -** This lad, forsooth, down the long years should pass, With scent of blooms, with daffodils arow, Lighting their candles in the April grass. Ah, tis not thus he comes to us, but sweet With youth and sorrows ! When we speak his name, Lo, the old house in the old foreign street, His broken voice lamenting that his fame (Alack, he knew not ! ) passing fleet would be ! He grieves us with his melancholy eyes. Yet are all weathers sweeter for that he Did sing. Deep in the Roman dust he lies. How since he died the century hath sped ! And they that mocked him, yea, they too are dead. 17 A THOUGHT OF MAY A LL that long, mad March day, in the dull town ** I had a thought of May alas, alas ! The dogwood boughs made whiteness up and down The daffodils were burning in the grass ; And there were bees astir in lane and street, And scent of lilacs blowing tall and lush ; While hey, the wind, that pitched its voice so sweet It seemed an angel talked behind each bush ! The west grew very golden, roofs turned black. I saw one star above the gables bare. The door flew open. Love, you had come back. I held my arms ; you found the old way there. In its old place you laid your yellow head, And at your kiss the mad March weather fled ! 18 DOUBT REEDS grow so thick along the way, Their boughs hide God ; I cannot pray. ~^ TRUTH old faiths light their candles all about. But burly Truth comes by and blows them out. 19 A DECEMBER ROSE A ROSE is a rose all times of the year. -^ ^ I have one out in my garden there, In the deep grass out by the gray old stair - A breath of June in December drear. Ah, but its red is a little sere, And nipped by the frost in last night s air ! A rose is a rose all times of the year. I have one out in my garden there. So, when Love comes, he is counted dear, With his reed at his lips, in June-tide fair, A-piping sweet, or with wind-blown hair, And tears in his eyes in December drear. A rose is a rose all times of the year. 20 A SONG LOVE, he went a-straying, A long time ago ! I missed him in the Maying, When blossoms were of snow ; So back I came by the old sweet way ; And for I loved him so, I wept that he came not with me, A long time ago ! Wide open stood my chamber door, And one stepped forth to greet; Gray Grief, strange Grief, who turned me sore With words he spake so sweet. I gave him meat ; I gave him drink ; (And listened for Love s feet). How many years? I cannot think; In truth, I do not know A long time ago ! O Love, he came not back again, Although I kept me fair; And each white May, in field and lane, I waited for him there ! Yea, he forgot ; but Grief stayed on, And in Love s empty chair Doth sit and tell of days long gone Tis more than I can bear ! 21 MID-MARCH TT is too early for white boughs, too late * For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fa A few last flakes, ragged and delicate. Down the stripped roads the maples start their small, Soft, wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks A rich and deepening red. The willow tree Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks The lean bush crouching hints old royalty, Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows Soon twill leap up and show the world a rose. The days go out with shouting ; nights are loud ; Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold ; The moon s a sword of keen, barbaric gold, Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud. 22 THE SINGER VI7ITH spices, wines and silken stuffs, The stout ship sailed down, And with the ship the singer came Unto the old sea town. " Peace to ye ! " quoth the sailor folk, " A month and more have we Been listening to his songs. Ah, God ! None sings so sweet as he/ Up from the wharves the salt wind blew. And filled the steep highway; Seven slender plum trees caught the sun Within a courtyard gray. Out came the daughter of the king; Oh, very fair was she ! She was the whitest bough a-grow, So fair, so fair was she ! The singer sang, "My love," he sang, " Is like a white plum tree ! " Then silence fell on house and court ; No other word sang he. 23 The king s daughter, when she was old, Sat in a broidered gown, And spun the flax from her fair fields Oh, it was sweet in town ! Seven plum trees stood down in the court, Each one was white as milk ; The king s daughter rose softly there, Rustling her broidered silk. " Oh, set the wheel away, my maids, And sing that song to me The singer sang ! " " My love," sang they, " Is like a white plum tree ! " 24 SWEET WEATHER blow the daffodils on slender stalks, Small keen quick flames that leap up in the mold, And run along the dripping garden-walks : Swallows come whirring back to chimneys old. Blown by the wind, the pear-tree s flakes of snow Lie heaped in the thick grasses of the lane ; And all the sweetness of the Long Ago Sounds in that song the thrush sends through the rain. 25 IN JUNE With a Difference. HAMLET. \T7HO saw the June come? Wel-a-day! My neighbor s bushes, one and all, And grew white after God s old way, Behind the garden wall. Who saw the June come? Nay, not she, My neighbor s daughter, slim and shy, Long since she left her father s house, Ere yet the rose was nigh. Last year, last year, there in the sun She stood and smiled. I did not know Which was the whitest thing in June, She, or that bush a-grow. But now ; ah, now ; yea, now tis plain ! When folk be dead, how wise we be ! God s boughs were black beside her snow ; Ah, now ; yea, now I see ! My neighbor s bushes blow, blow, blow, And blow about his silent door ! Ye call that white ? Nay, tis not so ; June has been here before. 26 Ye cannot mock me, blossoms sweet ; I know too well your looks of yore ; My neighbor knows (yet blow, blow, blow), June has been here before. 27 AFTER THE RAIN TARIFFING the hollyhocks beneath the wall, *~* Their fires half quenched, a smouldering red ; A shred of gold upon the grasses tall, A butterfly is hanging dead. A sound of trickling waters, like a tune Set to sweet words ; a wind that blows Wet boughs against a saffron sky; all June Caught in the breath of one white rose. 28 A RHYME OF DEATH S INN A RHYME of good Death s inn ! -* ^ My love came to that door ; And she had need of many things, The way had been so sore. My love she lifted up her head, " And is there room ? " said she ; 44 There was no room in Bethlehem s inn For Christ who died for me." But said the keeper of the inn, " His name is on the door." My love then straightway entered there : She hath come back no more. 29 THE DEATH POTION [IN ITALY, 15] drop of this, and she will not know If she be foul or fair ; One drop, and I may bind him again With a thread of my golden hair. (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) I would that those folk across the street, In old St. Simon s there, Would hush their noise : for they sing so sweet They make this rare drop seem less rare. (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) It is May ; my plum trees five Down in the court below Look like five little chorister boys Tiptoe to chant, so white they blow. (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) And a butterfly like a violet Flits through the sun and lights on the sill Close to my hand. Are the bees about, Or is it the wind comes down the hill ? (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) 30 But what have 7 to do with the May, Or any other weather ? Or with five white plum trees? Hate and I, And I and Hell, be yoked together. (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) (One drop is sure to kill.) When she dies, They will put the cross on her breast, And get the golden candlesticks out For her head and feet, and call her blest. (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) But she is a thief ! Do ye hear me in Heaven ? Her soul shall not come in To those white souls. She is pitch, not snow. Saint Simon, Saint Simon, is Theft not sin ? (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) For he was mine, and I was his ; (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) Though we had shame, yet had we bliss. (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) I fell, but for love, love, love ; And for love, love, love, I swear ! I, for this man and my love, Would have wiped his feet with my hair ! (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) 31 This robber came ; she lay in wait ; She sprang upon him unaware ; He thinks to wed her with a ring To-morrow in St. Simon s there. (Hear, Lord Jesus I ) One drop ? And she shall have it then In a sup of her lover s wine ; So old things will come back again, And I be his, and he be mine ! (Hear, Lord Jesus ! ) 32 BLACKBERRY BLOSSOMS ONG sunny lane and pike, white, delicate, -*- - The blackberry blossoms are ablow, ablow, Hiding the rough-hewn rails neath drift of snow, Fresh-fallen, late. The opening pasture gate Brushes a hundred of them loose, and shakes Them down into the tall delicious grass : Sometimes a little sudden wind doth pass, And all the air is full of flying flakes. It seems but yesterday they blew as sweet Down old school ways, and thrilled me with delight ; And reaching out for them, I heard the fleet, Glad creek go spinning o er its pebbles bright. Ah, well ! Ah, me ! Even now, long as they last, I am a child again ; Joy holds me fast. 33 SUNSET IN the clear dusk upon the fields below, The blossoming thorn-bush, white, and spare, and tall, Seems carved of ivory gainst the dark wall : Shut from the sunset sharp the farm-roofs show. But here upon this height, the straggling hedge Burns in the wind, and is astir with bees ; The little pool beneath the willow trees, Yellow as topaz flames from edge to edge ; A line of light the deserted highway glows. Odors like sounds down the rich air do pass, Spice from each bough, musk from the brier rose Dropping its five sweet petals on the grass. Swallows are whirring black against the blaze ; I hear the creek laugh out from pebbly ways. 34 THE DEAD SHIP A KELTIC LEGEND ~^HE ship came sailing, sailing, Into our old town My love combed out her golden hair It fell to the hem of her gown. Oh, my heart, break ! No master and no crew was hers, A ship of the dead was she, And sailing, sailing, sailing The folk ran out to see. Oh, my heart, break ! And first they said nor yea, nor nay ; Then some began to weep ; And some did count their little lads, As a shepherd counts his sheep. Oh, my heart, break ! Oh, sailing, sailing, sailing " Whom will it be ? " said they ; " She never sails to this our town But one doth go away/ Oh, my heart, break ! 35 "Yea, one will go from this our town And come back nevermore ; Whate er His will, Lord God is good ; " Thus I at my love s door. Oh, my heart, break ! Thereat I turned into the house And climbed up my love s stair, And called her softly through the dusk I saw her golden hair. Oh, my heart, break ! Who went away from our old town And came back nevermore? It was my love ; she lay there dead Upon the chamber floor. Oh, my heart, break ! 36 A RHYME FOR JUNE marshy pools on the road s edge, Or creeks that slip twixt banks of sedge, With marigolds be set aflare ; And not a corner south or north, But there a brier-rose breaks forth, And bees go droning down the air. The bramble now begins to blow, The elder-bush puts on its snow, And birds be sweet till fall of dew; And when my love and I go out, So thick the grass grows all about In truth, it scarce will let us through. 37 AUGUST wind, no bird. The river flames like brass. On either side, smitten as with a spell Of silence, brood the fields. In the deep grass, Edging the dusty roads, lie as they fell Handfuls of shriveled leaves from tree and bush. But long the orchard fence and at the gate, Thrusting their saffron torches through the hush, Wild lilies blaze, and bees hum soon and late. Rust-colored the tall straggling brier, not one Rose left. The spider sets its loom up there Close to the roots, and spins out in the sun A silken web from twig to twig. The air Is full of hot rank scents. Upon the hill Drifts the noon s single cloud, white, glaring, still. 38 EARLY SEPTEMBER "^HE swallows have not left us yet, praise God ! -* And bees still hum, and gardens hold the musk Of white rose and of red ; firing the dusk By the old wall, the hollyhocks do nod, And pinks that send the sweet East down the wind. And yet, a yellowing leaf shows here and there Among the boughs, and through the smoky air That hints the frost at dawn the wood looks thinned. The little half-grown sumachs, all as green As June last week, now in the crackling sedge, Colored like wine burn to the water s edge. We feel, at times, as we had come unseen Upon the aging Year, sitting apart, Grief in his eyes, some ache at his great heart. 39 A NOVEMBER AFTERNOON "^HE long and sad week s wind, like any child, * Has sobbed itself to sleep. This morning s rai Has strewn the stairway with the petals wild, Red, ragged, of my sweet last rose. The lane Shows me the poplar tree, blackened and bare, Clasped to its heart a dangling empty nest. A few dull yellow leaves stir here and there, And all the air is clear from east to west. The year, I think, lies dreaming of the May, As old men dream of youth, that loved lost thing. A spring-like thrill is in this weather gray. I wait to hear some thrush begin to sing ; And half expect, as up and down I go, To see my neighbor s cherry-boughs ablow ! 40 THE FIRST SNOW I ^HE dogwood has its bloom again; Each blade of grass out in the lane A little scentless bud doth bear; The shriveled shrubs to left and right Let loose a myriad petals light To every breath that stirs the air. Still as in June its briers beneath The meadow brook shows its white teeth. Remembering June, the wild rose-bush Holds still a berry here and there, Setting the blackened twigs aflare With scarlet in the frosty hush. Long are the hours from dusk to dawn ; From dawn to dusk ah, too soon gone ! Lo, when the brief day sinks to rest, Then bough by bough, like bone by bone, The naked trees stand out alone Against the keen gold of the west ! 41 TO HER SWEET EYES SWEET eyes, sweet eyes, that now be in the dust, When you I had, the May was May in truth ! The round world wore its white as youth did youth, Sweet eyes, sweet eyes, that now be in the dust ! Of its old music is the wind s throat bare ; June is not June ; the rose hath lost its red, The pink its spice ; the hollyhock is dead ; There are no lilies blowing anywhere And yet, I came upon a grave to-day, By a church door, and there a thorn-bush stood, Astir with bees, abrim with blossoms gay, The one fair thing of field and hedge and wood. You lay beneath, sweet eyes, sweet eyes and true, And it was fair because, because of you ! NINE HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES OF THIS BOOK PRINTED ON VAN GELDER HAND-MADE PAPER AND THE TYPE DISTRIBUTED. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. " J * ( ^ i 1 - -, [9 jty LOAN DEJF*JV MAY <^ iSSi 6 S. ilVEQ ^7^P* i - ^ , , r-^p p Tfi i T r 01 \ RH T General Library 3>&8)fta Urfm^rfO.IMol. 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